In the five years since their excellent debut, The Virgins apparently went through some heavy stuff, becoming less power-poppy and replacing 75% of the band. They’ve also absorbed the sounds of their New York heritage, echoing The Velvet Underground, Television, and The Strokes. (And sometimes Mark Knopfler, the outlier).

If the Madchester scene was filtered through Simian Mobile Disco. Day-glo dance pop with guitars, and big, bouncin’, rubbery beats that reverberate inside your skull until nothing is left but jigglin’ brain jelly.

Life in San Francisco. The lyrics of Nathanson’s album are almost too specific. It’s not always easy to identify with someone singing what sounds like parts of their diary. But if he’s going to keep writing songs as catchy as “Kinks Shirt” then I’ll just shut up.

(You can find me in the corner dancing like Molly Ringwald in The Breakfast Club.)